


Forbidden Adventure

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s01e01 Pilot, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26911654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: just a lil post pilot piece that had been sitting in my drafts
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68





	Forbidden Adventure

Mulder drags her bag from the overhead bin and plops it onto her seat. It seems days ago they left Bellefleur instead of only hours. She smiles as they shuffle off the plane, a bit giddy, first case under her belt. 

Her smile fades quickly though, halfway down the jet bridge, eyes landing on the dark-haired man awaiting their arrival. There are flowers in his hand—Ethan never forgets flowers—a hopeful, expectant grin on his face. “Surprise!” he calls upon catching her eye.

It flusters her seeing him there, Mulder right beside her, hand at her hipbone but then quickly gone. In the few days since meeting her partner, she’s somehow failed to mention her boyfriend. Ethan’s sloppy _welcome home_ kisses take care of that.

Introductions are awkward—of course they are—Ethan has gropy hands and a hungry mouth, and Mulder has a basement full of files and a missing sister. She doesn’t blame him a bit when he quickly excuses himself to continue down the terminal.

“Nice guy,” mumbles Ethan, still nuzzling her ear, and Scully hums, eyes trained on her partner’s long legs as they lope through the throng of DC travelers and finally disappear. Her heart beats erratically beneath her breast.

“My place?” Ethan urges as they head to the car, but she begs him off, blames jet lag, blames reports, blames anything but the desire to be alone right now, to relive these past few days to try and make sense of it all.

Unpacked, showered, she lies alone in her bed not two hours later. She stares at the ceiling. It’s the same ceiling that was here last week, the same one from each of the three years she’s lived in this apartment. It somehow seems different. There’s an energy buzzing within her, one she hasn’t felt since med school, since sliding a scalpel beneath living skin for the very first time.

Laying her hand on her bare abdomen, she remembers the glow of candlelight in a darkened motel room, the startling, stinging feel of rain against her face. Her hand slips lower. Then lower still, beneath silk pajama bottoms that match the robe she wore in her new partner’s hotel room just a few nights ago.

She doesn’t think of Mulder, she honestly doesn’t, but with fingers slick and pumping, she gets herself off to the thrill of it all, to the way the last few days have felt like a forbidden adventure, to the way her blood is pumping through her veins so much more sensuously than it’s ever pumped before.

She’s not surprised three weeks later when nobody’s at the end of the jet bridge, when there are no flowers, no _welcome home_ kisses, when it turns out “I’m sorry, work is just so busy” are thelast words she ever says to her forgotten boyfriend. When there is only work and more work and more work.

When all that’s left is Mulder, and she likes it that way.


End file.
